The Best of Intentions
by shoplifterette
Summary: PostHogwarts, Postwar. Hermione thinks about her life in a world that has gone dark. Oneshot.


DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to JKR.

Authors note: Again, this is something I wrote a while ago. This is a re-post. Not quite the stuff I usually write, though. I hope you enjoy it anyways.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat naked on the cold stone floor, staring towards the wall. She couldn't believe what she had done.

She had slept with the Dark Lord.

She had slept with the man who had killed her parents, who had killed her friends. She could never, ever forgive herself for this. Through one single act of desperation she had betrayed everything she had ever believed in.

She had been in captivity ever since Harry had been killed. When she had first agreed to cooperate with Voldemort, it was with the best of intentions.

Hermione had wanted to gain information, to gain the trust of the Dark Lord. She had wanted to search for a way out of her prison. But of course, she had realized soon, it was completely useless.

Everything lay in shatters.

Even if she would have been able to escape, she couldn't go anywhere now. Voldemort had won the war, the Order was destroyed, the ministry under the Dark Lord's thumb. But that was not important – Hermione wouldn't have been able to escape anyway. She knew where she was. She was at the Headquarter of the Dark Order, she was where Voldemort lived. There was no way out of this castle without his permission. It was as if the whole building seemed to depend solely on his will. Not even a window could be opened if he didn't want it to open. It was useless.

Consequently, Hermione had succumbed to an extent. She had started to cooperate for other reasons. She just wanted to survive, she just wanted her life to be a little bit easier. Surely no-one could judge her for that? She wasn't evil. She was desperate.

And Voldemort accepted her help gladly.

As time passed by, the tasks she was given grew more and more demanding, more interesting. In her mechanical routine of obedience, she had almost forgotten whom she was working for. But never for long, and never completely. Her guilt followed her everywhere.

Her first meeting with Voldemort in person had been odd, to say the least. He had complimented her on her work and he had talked to her. His voice was quiet. In a strange way, he had been kind to her. The Dark Lord had told her how valuable she was to him. And Hermione had been pleased about his words, even if the mere fact of this had made her stomach clench with guilt.

A few months later, Voldemort told her that she would be working directly for him from this day on. And she had accepted this. Of course, the alternative to that would have been death or at least imprisonment, but still. She had had a choice and she had chosen to help him. Her conscience never failed to remind her of it.

She was restless.

The next weeks (or months? years?) had been full of hard work and intense research. Voldemort had ordered her to brew an immensely complex potion, a horrible potion. She didn't dare to think too closely about what he was going to do with it. Its ingredients were rare and there were nearly no notes on how to brew it. But she had tried to do it and she had succeeded.

The Dark Lord was most pleased with her.

Regardless of the project she worked on at the moment, he always came to check on her, to talk with her. But not every time he asked her about her projects. Or her progress. He made sure that no-one mistreated her.

It drove Hermione to the edge of insanity.

After two years of research, she had forgotten for whom she was working. She had forgotten that she should feel guilty about her cooperation. Hermione had come to enjoy her conversations with The Dark Lord, and she approached him whenever her knowledge about magic came to an end. She didn't even think to search her answers in a book anymore. What for? Voldemort had an immense knowledge. He fascinated her. And , after years of isolation, she had craved for human touch.

For his touch.

But now her memories were back. All the things she had pushed aside during her years at the Dark Order's Headquarters were back to haunt her, torture her.

In utter despair, she asked herself what she had done. She had worked for Voldemort. She had helped him commit terrible crimes. In a way. And now – now she had shared his bed. Hermione was sure she could never forgive herself.

But even in her despair, she wasn't able to fool herself. The Dark Lord hadn't forced her into his bed. She had slept with him willingly. And she didn't regret it. She hated herself for it, yes, but she didn't regret it. Somehow, during these years of loneliness and constant research, she had come to love him. It wasn't a happy, fiery kind of love. It was a quiet love, born out of fascination and isolation. But it was love, nonetheless.

That was why she was so desperate.

A cool hand touched her bare shoulder, stroking her skin softly while her tears fell onto the cold stone floor. Hermione turned around, turned to her only source of comfort. She wanted to scream, to yell at him. But she didn't. Instead, she put her arms around him and closed her eyes. His stoic calmness comforted her. He didn't offer words of consolation, and he didn't stroke her hair, telling her that everything would be alright. But he didn't need to. His presence was enough for her.

After a while, he took her hand and led her back to the bed they had shared only hours ago. With closed eyes, Hermione laid back against the pillows. She had long ago stopped crying. As he kissed her breasts, she knew that she belonged to him. She would not have chosen this man (this god? this monster?) for herself, had the circumstances been different. But it seemed that fate had made this decision for her. And she accepted it. Regardless of her feelings she knew one thing.

He was the only option she had left.


End file.
